Charles Todd - A matter of Justice

Rutledge followed instructions but discovered that Mr. Penrith had not so far arrived at his firm at the usual hour this morning. "We expect him at ten o'clock," the clerk told Rutledge after a long look at his identification.

It took some convincing to pry Penrith's direction out of the man.

Armed with that, Rutledge drove on to a tall, gracious house in Belgravia. Black shutters and black railings matched the black door, and two potted evergreens stood guard on either side of the shallow steps.

The pert maid who opened the door informed him that she would ask if Mr. Penrith was at home.

Five minutes later, Rutledge was being shown into a drawing room that would have had Padgett spluttering with indignation. Cream and pale green, it was as French as money could make it.

Penrith joined him shortly, standing in the doorway as if prepared to flee. Or so it appeared for a split second. When he stepped into the room, his expression was one of stoicism. He didn't invite Rutledge to sit down.

"What brings the police here? Is it the firm? My family?"

Rutledge replied, "Mr. Penrith, I'm afraid I must inform you that your former partner, Harold Quarles, is dead."

The shock on Penrith's face appeared to be genuine. "Dead? Where? How?"

Rutledge's head felt as if there were salvos of French eighty-eights going off simultaneously on either side of him. "In Somerset, at his estate."

After a moment, Penrith sat down and put his hands over his face, effectively hiding it, and said through the shield of his fingers, "Of what cause? Surely not suicide? I refuse to believe he would kill himself."

Mrs. Quarles had said the same thing.

"Why are you so certain, sir?"

Penrith lowered his hands. "For one thing, Harold Quarles is- was-the hardest man I've ever met. For another, he was afraid of nothing. I can't even begin to imagine anything that would make him want to die."

"I'm afraid he was murdered."

He thought Penrith was going to fall off his chair.

"Murdered? By whom?"

"I have no answer to that. Not yet. I've come to London to find it."

"It can't be someone in the City. I can't think of anyone who would-I mean to say, even his professional competitors respected him." He stopped and cleared his throat. "He was generally well liked in London. Both his business acumen and his ability to deal with people took him into the very best circles. You can ask anyone you choose."

"I understand Quarles was from-er-different circumstances, in his youth."

"I know very little about his past. He was frank about being poor in his youth, and people admired that. Accepted it, because of his ability to fit in, like a chameleon. That's to say his table manners were impeccable, he knew how to dress well, and his conversation was that of a gentleman, though his accent wasn't. People could enjoy his company without any sense of lowering their own standards. They could introduce their wives and daughters to him without fear that he would embarrass them with his attentions."

His praise had an edge to it, as if Penrith was envious.

"Have you known him long?"

"He and I joined the firm about the same time, and we prospered there. In fact ended as partners. Still, I preferred to reduce my schedule in the last year or so, and left James, Quarles amp; Penrith to set up for myself. He wished me well, and I've been glad of more time to spend with my family."

Penrith was fair and slim and had an air of coming from a good school, an excellent background if not a wealthy one. It was not likely that the two men had much in common beyond their business dealings. That would explain the stiffness in his answers.

"How is Mrs. Quarles taking the news?" Penrith asked. "I must send her my condolences."

"She's bearing up," Rutledge answered, and saw what he suspected was a flicker of amusement in Penrith's blue eyes before he looked down at his hands.

"Yes, well, this has been a shock to me. Thank you for coming in person to tell me. Will you keep me abreast of the search for his killer? I'd like to know."

"I was fortunate to find you at home at this hour."

"Yes, I've just returned from Scotland and it was a tiring journey. My wife is visiting there."

"I must call on his solicitor next. Do you know of any reason why someone would wish to harm Harold Quarles? You would be in a better position than most to know of a disgruntled client, a personal quarrel…"

"I've told you. His clients were pleased with him. As for personal problems, I don't believe there were any. He wasn't in debt, his reputation was solid, his connections of the best. But then I was his business partner, not a confidant."

"I understand in Somerset that he had a much different reputa- tion-for pursuing women, with or without their consent."

A dark flush suffused Penrith's fair skin. "It's the first I've heard of it." His tone was harsh, as if Rutledge had insulted his former partner.

"He didn't have the same reputation in London?" Rutledge pressed.

"I told you. Not at all. Do you think he'd have been invited to weekends at the best houses if that were the case?"

"Thank you for your help. You can always reach me through Sergeant Gibson at the Yard."

"Yes, yes, of course." He got up and walked with Rutledge to the door. "This is very distressing."

Rutledge paused on the threshold. "Were you invited down to Somerset often?"

"Quarles and his wife seldom entertained after their separation. Over the years, I was probably in that house a dozen times at most, and then only when we had pressing business. I can count on one hand the number of times I dined there."

"Did you know of Mrs. Quarles's relationship with her cousin Charles Archer?"

"Yes, I did. By the time Archer came to live at Hallowfields, Harold and Maybelle were estranged. It made for an uncomfortable weekend there, if you must know. I never understood what the problem was, and Harold never spoke of the situation. One year they were perfectly happy, and the next they were living in different wings of the house. This must have been late 1913, or early 1914. He was angry most of the time, and she was like a block of ice. But I can tell you that after Archer arrived, wounded and in need of care, the house settled into an armed peace, if you can imagine that. I shouldn't be telling you this-it would be the last thing Harold would countenance from me. But he's dead, isn't he? And I shouldn't care for you to think that Mrs. Quarles was in any way involved in this murder."

In spite of his claim that he shouldn't have discussed the issue, there was an almost vindictive relish behind the words, as if Penrith was pleased that Harold's marriage was in trouble. A counterpoint to his own happy one?

Rutledge said, "I shall, of course, need to verify your claim to have been in Scotland."

Penrith seemed taken aback. "My claim? Oh-of course. Routine."

Rutledge thanked him and went out the door, feeling dizzy as he reached the motorcar. But it passed, and he went on to Hurley and Sons, Quarles's solicitors. The street was Georgian brick, and the shingles of solicitors gleamed golden in the morning light as he found a space for his motorcar.

A clerk in the outer office verified that Hurley and Sons had dealt with Mr. Quarles's affairs for many years, and showed Rutledge into the paneled office ofJason Hurley, a white-haired man of sixty. When he realized that his visitor was from Scotland Yard, he immediately suggested that his son Laurence join them. The younger Hurley was indeed his father's son-they shared a prominent chin and heavy, flaring eyebrows that gave them both a permanently startled expression.

Quarles's solicitors were shocked by the news-which Rutledge gave them in full-asking questions about their client's death, showing alarm when Rutledge told them that no one had yet been taken into custody.